


Controlled Freefall

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Olympics, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rio 2016: Sherlock Holmes, the oldest diver on Team Great Britain is sharing a room in the Olympic Village with field hockey goalkeeper John Watson, and the IOC in Rio *did* provide all of those condoms for a reason...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Amanda and Allison.

_ London, UK—The venue is incredible: vaulted ceilings, gilded mirrors, a parquet floor buffed within a centimeter of its life. But it’s the people that fill the room that are the magnificent sight everyone is focused on.  _

 

_ Ten of Great Britain’s Olympic team have gathered to give a talk about the need for funding in children’s sport. Among the attendees is Tom Daley, gold-winning diver who was the beneficiary of such a program at the Plymouth Diving Club. “It’s tragic, really,” the 22 year old tells us as he sips very primly from a flute of champagne. “Some of these young kids, they’re such dynamos and have such talent, but there’s just no funding to get them the training they need. We’re trying to change that. Get them on the platform, get them in the pool.” _

 

_ Ellie and Becky Downie have also taken time out of their jam-packed Olympics training regime to try and shore up funds for Go Play!, a non-profit that ensures youth athletes have access to sport at a young age, regardless of their financial state. “We were very lucky, very lucky,” Ellie tells us. “Our parents were able to afford the best coaches, the best gyms, the best equipment.”  _

 

_ “Right,” Becky chimes in, more somber than her sister, but no less talented. “Would we be as good as we are if we hadn’t had that cushion, if we didn’t have the money? Probably not. And everyone deserves a chance.” _

 

_ Last year, Go Play! was responsible for a small gym and two multi-purpose fields in Hackney; the town is still working to stabilize their youth teams in order for competition to take place. Unemployment and crime is quite high in Hackney, and founder Martin Spleet is hoping that programs like this will help bring other charitable programs into the area. “I created this fund because, growing up in poverty, I wasn’t able to play rugby or football with the lads. We all wanted to play, there was just nowhere to do it.” _

 

_ Perhaps Spleet’s biggest accomplishment was the creation of a weekend sporting extravaganza at Highbury Fields–Go Play Now!–where elite athletes are on hand to introduce area children to sports such as tennis, hockey, handball and archery. David Beckham has even been known to show up. _

 

_ John Watson–a veteran as the three-time goalkeeper for Team Great Britain in hockey and a stalwart attendee at the Go Play Now! Events–is perhaps the most vocal about the benefits of sporting in youth’s lives. “For me, hockey was something that got me out of the home. I’ve made no secret that my childhood wasn’t the easiest, and hockey gave me something to channel all of my anger and energy into. Luckily, I had an uncle that left us with a bit of money and so my parents could afford to send me to Glasgow to train for the summer but, there are so many kids who don’t have that. Teamwork and dedication are something that kids should learn at an early age, and everyone should have access to that.” _

 

_ Another standout athlete in attendance is Sherlock Holmes, hanging in the corner in what appears to be a suit featured in Tom Ford’s latest collection. The quiet, mysterious diver, will be participating in his final Games this summer, as the oldest diver on Team Great Britain. But Holmes is spectacular outside of the diving arena as well. To date, Holmes himself has donated over £250,000 of his own money, while bringing in over £4.5 million from outside donors, some anonymous.  _

 

_ It remains to be seen whether Go Play! Will reach its goal of £10 million during this fundraising cycle, but the athletes here are pulling out all the stops. _

 

_ “I’m having Dustin reach out to all of his Hollywood people,” Daley jokes with me about his partner– a highly regarded Hollywood screenwriter–just before the VIP guests arrive. “Hopefully they come through.” _

 

_ Hopefully they do. And hopefully Team Great Britain comes through this August in Rio.  _

  
_ Go Play! can be found on the web at  www.goplaykids.uk.org . _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s more than happy to be in a separate group of apartments, especially given the person he’s going to be rooming with. John hasn’t seen Sherlock Holmes in a few weeks, and he can’t help but realize that he’s looking forward to seeing him again, a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't really know how the rooming arrangements at the Olympics go. I was told that teammates room together, but then the US basketball teams got their own ship, so I thought, fuck it. 
> 
> My thanks to [my dahlin'](http://www.astudyinrose.tumblr.com) for her quick work on this.

It had been a nightmare of a trip.

 

The layover in Reykjavik had been awful, due to the fact that the flight was delayed twice and the one cafeteria in the airport had only been taking  cash. They’d had to change planes again in New York, where a series of thunderstorms made it impossible to get out for most of the evening. When John had  finally made it onto the last leg of the trip, he’d been smushed up at the back of the plane for ten hours. He hadn’t been able to even doze on the way to Rio. 

 

Now, he’s rather jet lagged, and could do with a shower, seven gallons of water and a nice, long nap. His stomach roils as he collects his bags; the airplane food hadn’t done him any favors, either.

 

He doesn’t have much hope for the food in Rio, though, owing to all of his time spent on the road playing for the national team. They fed you what they could manage on a budget, making sure you got the proper calorie intake, and that was it. Still, an omelette from the cafeteria would be better than the limp, watery risotto they’d microwaved on the plane.

 

He watches out the window of the efficiency van, taking in the sights. They pass the beach- and it looks stunning, even if it is overcast. John hopes the weather clears in time for the Opening Ceremonies tomorrow. When they finally get to the Village, the van stops periodically, his teammates bounding out, excited to see their digs, until only John is left. 

 

Luckily, the van drops him off at a building in Olympic Village that is separate from the rest of the men’s hockey team. He loves those blokes, but they can be a bit much. He is, after all, at least seven years older than the next oldest player, and the team had made no secret of planning to get as much  _ Olympic arse _ as possible. 

 

If John was ten years younger…

 

But now, John just wants to  _ sleep,  _ hopefully in accommodations that aren’t as bad as the press had been hinting at. He shoulders his way through the front door, grabs his placement packet up from the volunteers manning the front desk, and heads up to the seventh floor.

 

He’s more than happy to be in a separate group of apartments, especially given the person he’s going to be rooming with. John hasn’t seen Sherlock Holmes in a few weeks, and he can’t help but realize that he’s looking forward to seeing him again,  _ a lot _ . He wonders if Sherlock has already made it to the room, and John realizes he hasn’t prepared himself mentally, yet. It takes a certain kind of mindset to be able to deal with Sherlock Holmes, and right now, John is exhausted and cranky.

 

Luckily, when John manages to make his keycard work in the door, he finds the room empty. He’s glad for it, and takes a breath before stepping in and glancing about at the accommodations. The first thing that John notices is the large basket of condoms on the small television table. He drops his stuffed duffel on the bed closest to the door and goes to investigate. He’s not sure what the packaging says as it’s in Portugese, but he can guess. 

 

_ A minor comfort, that johnnies are the same around the globe. _

 

“Christ,” he reaches in the bowl and pulls out a fistful, a few of the little foil packets slipping between his fingers to plink back in with the rest. It takes a moment, but then he notices that there are just as many packets of lubricant beneath. He prods at those with his free index finger. “How much sex do they think we  _ have _ ?”

 

He’s still marvelling at the prophylactics, allowing them to fall from his hand back into the bowl, when he hears, in an amused tone, “You know as well as I that other athletes tend to…”

 

John’s heart leaps into his throat, beating madly, like a hummingbird’s wings. John sucks in a quick breath, steadies himself and manages to say, “Get magnificently horny?” He turns, smiling, and meets the gaze of Sherlock Holmes. It hasn’t been very long since he’s laid his eyes upon that face, but now, seeing it again, it feels like it’s been  _ eons _ .

 

“You would know. Aren’t you known as ‘Three Continents Watson?’” Sherlock asks, and it sounds hard and cold, but after a moment, his mouth tips up into a smirk and he– _ dear god _ –winks. His eyes sparkle in a way that John can’t help but be charmed by; the  _ nerve _ . 

 

“And anyhow, I was going to say ‘get distracted,’ but yes.” Sherlock drops his own duffle and crosses the room to extend his hand in a very cordial manner. “John, it’s… good to see you again.”

 

The last time the two of them had been in the same room was during a Great Britain team junket, a month prior. They hadn’t had much time to speak to one another aside from general pleasantries and extending congratulations on making the team again, especially at their age. They’d been running into one another since their first Olympics, in China back in 2008. Sherlock had been just as serious and dedicated then. John, however, had been swept up in the Olympics fervor, taking bedmates from Japan, Australia and the United States, hence his  _ Three Continents _ moniker.

 

John steps toward him and extends a hand to shake with Sherlock. “Good to see you too. Maybe lay off the Three Continents bit, yeah? Took an eon to scrub my reputation clean after all that.” The grin that’s splitting John’s face doesn’t seem to disappear as they let go of one another. Sherlock smiles warmly and returns to claim his bed, the one nearest the window.    
  
“What’s the expression? If the shoe fits?” Sherlock teases.

 

“Shoe doesn’t fit anymore. Outgrew that shoe. Got a bit too old for that shoe,” John laughs and Sherlock joins him. John feels a little awkward talking about his sexual past, now that he’s older. One person had made a joke about him in an interview and the nickname had caught on; he thought the public had finally put it to rest. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to drag it up, again. John redirects with a bit of small talk. “Room’s not as bad as I thought it’d be from what everyone was saying.”

 

Sherlock hums in recognition but says nothing otherwise, throws the curtain open revealing an overcast, early evening sky. His frown is palpable. “I’m not sure what I expected,” Sherlock murmurs, almost to himself, then turns back to John. “But this rather looks like the weather in London.”

 

John takes a moment, tries to imagine pale, icy-facades Sherlock Holmes on the beaches of Copacabana and finds that he can’t. But he wants to; he very much wants to. 

 

“Ah, yeah, s’a shame. We could have stayed home and gotten the same experience,” John replies.

 

Sherlock chuckles and removes his Team Great Britain jacket. “Not quite.”

 

John chuckles too, leans against the wall and watches as Sherlock begins to meticulously set up his side of the room. John takes in the sparse furniture, the yellow, green and blue decorative touches, and suddenly feels as though the space they’re sharing will be too small. He’d forgotten how effectively Sherlock stole all of the air from a room; he’d forgotten how intimidating his presence was. But Sherlock was a notorious bachelor, eschewing relationships and even friendships to the point that the press actually noticed. He’d been dragged in the papers, being called a machine, a bachelor.    
  
Maybe Sherlock doesn’t want to get to know him, but John’s not one to give up easily. He’s not sure why, exactly, but just being around Sherlock it makes him content in a way that’s lovely and surprising, but also decidedly unsettling. He’s not felt this way about another person, ever. He’s never laughed like he has with Sherlock, or had such captivating conversation, or wanted to know  _ more _ upon leaving a person. And they’ve not spent much time together, not in the grand scheme of things.

 

They’ve shared national medal celebrations at other games, they’ve been invited to the same charity galas, the same press junkets. They’re not strangers, not by a long shot, but he wants to know more, because Sherlock  _ is _ mysterious, and alluring.

 

From John’s limited interactions with him, Sherlock has proven himself to be incredibly intelligent, and he doesn’t suffer fools. There is–of course–the fact that he’s classically handsome, but what John admires more is that he is a person who goes all in, head first, no fear and no holds barred. John also admires how Sherlock handles the press, leaving no room for interpretation when he speaks.  Outside of diving, Sherlock Holmes actually has a life, something not all athletes seem to accomplish or even attempt. John can’t recall what Sherlock had called it, but he’s something of an independent detective. 

 

It wasn’t a  _ private detective _ , that he remembers, but regardless, it sounded exciting and unpredictable, two qualities that John eagerly seeks out in his own life. Excitement has been hard to come by, as of late. Between training in order to keep up with the younger blokes and attempting to maintain his medical licensure, John’s life has been wake, eat, doctor, train, repeat. He’s not sure how much longer he can do it.

 

_ That’s why this’ll be your last year _ , John reminds himself. It’s not something he’s made public yet, though he’s sure some people have guessed. Still, it had not been an easy decision to make, since it had been such a massive part of his life since he’d been just a lad.

 

He’d need to learn how to give it up.

 

John swallows and takes off his own jacket, hanging it on the edge of the headboard.    
  
“The rest of my things are being couriered over, yours too?” John attempts small talk, to which Sherlock merely nods, rifling through a side pocket of his bag for what turns out to be his mobile. 

 

Sherlock goes through the motions of shaking out and refolding his things. He doesn’t seem to want to speak, nor does he seem to feel uncomfortable with the lack of conversation, which is nice, as John hates forced chatting. He fiddles about with his own things, opens the small closet and peeks inside, walks around to check out the bathroom, finding it to be serviceable and without frills. 

 

When he’s through, Sherlock is inspecting the contents of the condom bowl, chuckling.    
  
John smiles at the sight. “You’re uh, more relaxed than I expected you to be. Than I remembered.”

 

Sherlock glances at him over his shoulder, his mouth relaxed, as he clutches a fistful of foil-covered latex. “Oh?”

 

John’s mouth tips into a calm, half-smile. “Yeah, last Olympics, all those stories in the tabloids about you and that swimmer. They just don’t lay off, do they?”

 

“Irene and I are just friends, as you well know,” Sherlock serves him with a withering look and lets his handful fall back into the bowl. 

 

John snorts through his nose; women aren’t Sherlock’s area, he’s made that abundantly clear. “Yeah, just, can’t be easy, all that press.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flare a bit, and he says, rather coolly, “And how would you know?”

 

“Oi!” John barks gently. He knows that Sherlock has an ego, but that doesn’t mean that he has to put up with it, regardless of how enchanting he finds Sherlock. John has gotten here of his own volition, his own skill and determination. “I may not have medalled last time, but I can assure you, the press still want interviews.”

 

Sherlock sighs. “I… apologize.” He drags his bag across the bed for better access, squirming a bit, obviously uncomfortable at having to apologize. “I’m… irritated, and it’s presenting, well… let’s blame it on the jetlag. Back to your point, why wouldn’t I be relaxed around you, John? We’ve never had a problem, have we?” And just like that, the tension that had cropped up briefly is gone.

 

John forges on, “Fair point, I guess I’m not as  _ scary _ as you are.” Sherlock emits a tiny chuckle.  He obviously knows how the world views him and he accepts it happily, without remorse. “Glad we geriatrics can room together; don’t think I would have been able to stand some young bloke bringing women back to the room every night.”

 

Sherlock smiles, “But geriatric divers can bring  _ men _ back to the room?”

 

John laughs. “Didn’t think you’d be in for fraternizing like that, what with all of the ‘Sherlock Holmes is a machine’ business the press keeps putting out.” John follows Sherlock’s lead and begins unpacking.     
  


Sherlock smooths out the stack of shirts he’s laid out. “That’s not completely untrue. How does one get to thirty and still compete to Olympic standards? One  _ must _ be a machine.”

 

“Christ, so formal, this isn’t an interview with the BBC. Nevermind.” John unzips his bag and just dumps it out on the bed; he’s too tired to be careful. 

 

Sherlock blinks up at him. “Are you not? A machine? You’re older than I am, after all.”

 

“Oh am I really?” John teases, sorting all of his socks to one side of the bed.

 

Sherlock stops unpacking, licks his lips and glances up to meets John’s gaze. “Perhaps I wikipedia’d you.”

 

That throws John for a loop and he gives up on his clothes, bouncing on his rear onto the bed, crossing his arms smugly over his chest. He feels strangely elated knowing that Sherlock had been  _ researching _ him. Sherlock eyes him for a moment and goes back to pulling out clothing and smoothing it out. John watches him for a time, wondering just what to do with this newfound knowledge.

 

“I wikipedia’d you, too,” John admits, his cheeks heating with slight embarrassment. “Tallest diver in ages–but I knew that–oldest diver on team Great Britain this year. Saw that quote about Daley feeling like a ‘granddad’ and thought,  _ wonder how Sherlock feels about that _ ...”

 

There’s silence as Sherlock pulls out four identical pairs of tiny Speedos. John tries very hard not to stare.  _ How can Sherlock possibly fit into those? _ he wonders. 

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, very clearly not wishing to discuss his fellow diver. “I don’t pay attention to that.”

  
John knows how it feels to be compared to other athletes, and realizes his oversight. “How do you even… get into those?” he redirects, rather poorly. It sounds ridiculous coming out of his mouth. Especially as he conjures up an image of Sherlock wriggling into a pair.   
  
Although in his wikipeding, he’d sought out photos as well. Sherlock could fit into those– _ dear christ on a cracker _ could he–but  _ barely _ . 

 

John had spent possibly too much time looking at photos of Sherlock Holmes before these games. But god, he had a body unlike John had ever seen. He was used to seeing buff, burly men, who grunt and sweat and hit and tackle. Sherlock is another animal entirely. He’s lithe and lean, with a core that looks like it’s had many,  _ many _ hours put into it.  His abs are a thing of wonder, tight and long and defined, not built outward like many hockey players tended to build.

 

His arse, too, was high and tight and gorgeous, and John–along with wondering how that particular arse would feel, filling his palms–wonders what workouts he has to do to stay that fit. Because it’s just plain _ impressive _ .

 

Not that John isn’t fit, he’s just a different kind of fit. He’s got stopping power, a sturdy core, and bulky arms and legs that make for good blocking skills. And he’s flexible, has to be, if he’s going to dive to save drives from becoming goals. He’s not terrible, not out of shape–a bit short, maybe–but he’s not built to the particular specifications that he finds attractive in others. 

 

“It’s not a simple endeavor,” Sherlock jokes. “They’re tight to hold you in,” Sherlock says, stretching one pair with his fingers. “Unlike your team’s… get-up, ours are much less comfortable.”

 

John rallies rather quickly, firing back, “I’m sorry, have you ever  _ worn _ a goalie’s kit?”

 

Sherlock actually takes a moment to consider this, during which John imagines Sherlock Holmes covered head to toe in thick, protective foam. “I cannot claim to ever have, no,” he finally says.

 

With a purse of his lips and a raising of his brow, John makes a silent point: his sport isn’t easy, either. “Perhaps I’ll show it to you, sometime,” John means it as a challenge but it comes out sounding rather salacious.   

 

Sherlock watches John–eyes shifting a shade darker, John  _ swears _ –for a moment and then dips his head in a single nod. “Yes. I’ve not seen… hockey equipment before. Could be useful in the future.”

 

For a moment, John wonders what that possibly could mean. “It’s just... a lot. Even after the cup and the padding there’s more padding, and it’s really unforgiving foam. Suppose it’s better than taking plastic to the knee at one twenty kilometers per hour, but.”

 

Sherlock looks contemplative, “One hundred and twenty?”

 

“Oh yeah, faster than that, maybe!” Sherlock’s brow furrows just slightly, and it dawns on John that even though he is speaking in generalities, Sherlock honestly has no idea what he’s talking about. “You’re British, you went to boarding school, you can’t possibly tell me that you never played hockey!”

 

Sherlock’s tongue comes out to wet his lips. “Special dispensation.” He grins crookedly and it looks a bit naughty. “Was training to dive, so I could opt out of sport otherwise.”

 

“Lucky bastard. ‘Sides the rugby and hockey, I dead hated everything else.”

 

“Even badminton?” Sherlock teases.

 

“ _ Especially _ badminton,” John laughs and relaxes down onto the bed. “Anyway, you doing the ceremony tomorrow?”

 

“Had considered it…” 

 

“Aw, come on, last Olympics, you never go... let’s go,” John swallows, trying to calm his nerves. “You know, together. Or walk it together, at least. Save me from Murphy and Willoughby. They’re such arseholes.”

 

Sherlock smiles and remains quiet, steadily pulling out more clothing and folding it, placing it with care into the tiny, cheap, plyboard dresser. “You didn’t bring one of those… sticks, did you?”

 

John puzzles, “Sticks?”

 

“For mobile photos.”

 

“Oh!” John catches on. “Selfie sticks. Ah, no. I’m not really… no. No.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock replies, and then is silent. 

  
John gives him another moment to clarify what the question about selfie sticks had referred to, and then decides to drop it. He’s disappointed, but he doesn’t want to seem desperate, and certainly doesn’t want to dog Sherlock into going with him. “I’m just going to take a quick shower, wash the airplane gunk off of me.”

 

Sherlock just meets his gaze quickly and goes back to organizing his things.

 

Once in the bathroom, John has the urge to bang his head against the wall. In his attempt not to sound eager, he’s sure that he’d sounded entirely overeager.  _ Get it the fuck together, you loon. You’ve had maybe a grand total of three hours of interaction with the man. You don’t know him, he’s not your friend, you’re clearly not his and stop thinking about his arse in those bottoms! _

 

He strips, steps into the shower and is rewarded with fairly good water pressure, though it won’t turn up as scalding as he prefers. He doesn’t take his time, since he doesn’t want Sherlock to think he’s avoiding him. Not to mention the fact that he doesn’t want to risk what would happen if he lets his hands stray anywhere south of his waist.  _ Christ, how old are you, John?  _

 

John glances in the steamed mirror only briefly before scrubbing himself down with a towel, and wrapping another around his waist. The air in the main room feels cool and dry against his skin when he emerges. 

 

Sherlock has his back to John, still fiddling with his belongings. John watches him for a moment, admiring the way his muscles move beneath his shirt. John sighs, knots the towel tighter at his waist and moves towards his heap of clothes. He’s passing around Sherlock when he’s brought up short by Sherlock’s hand tight on his wrist.  

 

John’s breath hitches and he looks from where Sherlock is gripping his arm, to meet his gaze. Sherlock doesn’t look away as he takes a swift breath and clips out, “Yes, alright.”

 

John gapes for a moment, before passing his tongue over his lips. “Huh?”

 

That long-suffering sigh makes an appearance and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The Opening Ceremonies.”

 

“Oh. Oh! You’ll go?” John feels exposed, standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else, dripping on the carpet. He feels even more exposed as the world seems to shift beneath him, as Sherlock’s eyes glide swiftly over his body. 

 

Sherlock swallows, looking in that moment like an awkward teenager. “Well, you want me to attend yes?”

 

“Yeah,” John says, a little quickly, a little breathy. He does, he really does. “Yeah, I do.”

 

Sherlock nods, decisive. “Then I’ll go with you.”

 

“With me,” John manages to croak out, just covering his bases.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock says firmly, another stiff nod. “We’ll go  _ together _ .”

 

“Good,” John snags a tee shirt from his pile and tries not to bounce in giddiness as he returns to the bathroom to dress. “Together, then.”

  
  



End file.
